


Eleven Years

by Yuko6754



Category: Ib (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Platonic Romance, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:37:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuko6754/pseuds/Yuko6754
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took a long time, eleven years, in fact, but they still managed to find one another again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eleven Years

_\- Garry's POV_ _-_

It was nostalgic, really, returning to this place. It had been eleven years since then, eleven years since that strange day at Guertena's art exhibit. In fact, if not for the white handkerchief he still carried with him wherever he went, he might have been able to convince himself that it really had all been just one long, horrible, terrifying nightmare.

And whenever he thought back on his experiences in the painting his heart would always start to pound away in his chest as if trying to fight its way from his body. The panic was always short-lived, however, because these thoughts were always accompanied by thoughts of _her_ , of that courageous and sweet little girl who had saved his life.

He had promised to meet her again.

He'd even kept her handkerchief to ensure that promise, because as long as he had it, he would have to give it back someday.

But it had already been eleven years since then and he still hadn't returned the small piece of cloth to its owner.

It wasn't even until he had left the exhibit and returned to the small apartment he'd been renting at the time, that he realized he had absolutely _no_ idea where he could find her again.

So here he was now, staring distantly - seeing but _not_ seeing - the red rose sculpture in front of him. Why had he even come back? He supposed that it was due to some vague hope that she might still return (if she even still remembered!). He would give it another ten minutes before he gave up for the day . . . but he was sure that he would return tomorrow as well.

* * *

_\- Ib's POV -_

Eleven years.

_Eleven years._

She hadn't been to this town in eleven whole years, not since she'd been to the art exhibit with her parents that long time ago. And now she was back, back at the same art gallery that had haunted her dreams, been the cause of her nightmares, for _months_. Even then, the gallery itself wasn't what had continued to haunt her over the years.

It was Mary. It was the sudden change that came over her when Garry had learned her secret. It was the calm stillness that had taken over her body when she had found the palette knife. It was the childish glee that she had shown even while she was chasing them.

And sometimes, if her nightmares were really, really bad . . . sometimes Garry would wind up dead, with his beautiful blue rose devoid of petals. Devoid of petals because those petals would be scattered around Mary's feet.

_(The women here all love to play Love Me, Loves Me Not)_

And she would wake with tears in her eyes.

She shook her head to dispel the depressing thoughts. She wasn't here to remember the past (though there had been _good_ times interspersed throughout, times with Garry . . . all the _good_ times were times with _Garr_ y). As she climbed the stairs she could feel her heart pounding away in her chest, pounding away because she may not be right. That gut feeling she'd had might not be right after all. She did not want to walk away disappointed.

It really was a small chance . . . but it was one that she felt she had to take. She _had_ to know if she was right. The wrapper of the yellow-wrapped candy crinkled in her pocket and she felt her cheeks heat for a moment. What if he _was_ there and he found out that she'd never eaten the candy? Would he laugh? It had been eleven years . . . had he changed? She'd only been nine then, and she hadn't understood many things, so what made her think that she had understood _him?_

She rounded the corner and approached the place where they had seen each other last: the rose sculpture. The embodiment of their soul. Their life.

And when she saw it, when she saw the figure ( _Tall, just like I remembered_ ) and the coat ( _Is it the same coat? It's still all torn up and raggedy_ ) her heart really did almost burst from a plethora of emotions. From relief, from joy and elation, from _love_ , and almost as if he could feel the emotions radiating off of her, he turned.

Some kind of sound passed her lips. She didn't know what sound it was; it could have been a laugh or a sob or a mixture of the two, but when he smiled - no, when he _grinned_ at her, she ran full-tilt into his arms.

"Garry!"

She buried her face against his chest ( _He's still too thin! I'll have to fix that!_ ) and cried into his shirt. She didn't want to cry; she'd always imagined herself meeting him again with a beaming smile . . . not dissolving into tears immediately. She tried to pull away and wipe her eyes, to apologize for getting his shirt wet, but his embrace merely tightened.

"Not yet, Ib, please. . . ."

That was all it took for her to cease her attempts to pull away, and she just hugged him fiercely.

"I-I wanted to be more . . . grown up when I saw you again!" she protested against his chest, ironically sounding somewhat childish even as she admitted it.

His chest vibrated with laughter, and a few drops of wetness landed on her hair; he was crying, too.

"Ib, you are the most grown-up person that I know! Way more than me! The only thing that changed is that you look more like it."

With a small sniffle, the taller man ( _Not SO much taller anymore,_ Ib thought happily) finally pulled away and used one arm to dig around in the deep pockets of his tattered coat. Still holding Ib, Garry drew the white handkerchief, perfectly cleaned and without a single mark, stain, or tear on it.

"See? I told you that I would give it back to you someday."

Finally pulling away, Ib wiped at her eyes and took the offered handkerchief before turning right around and reaching up to wipe away Garry's tears with it. His smiling face fell.

"Ib! Now it's not clean anymore!"

The girl - no, the woman, she is a woman now, no longer a little girl - smiled brightly up at Garry.

"It's okay, silly. I can always clean it again."

"I suppose. . . ."

Garry's words trailed off and he looked uncertain for a moment, but that uncertainty faded into full-blown shock when Ib - who was still at least three inches shorter than Garry - leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed the man fully on the mouth.

He froze for a moment, remembering that little girl, remembering Ib as she _had_ been, before forcing his mind to the present. That was then, and this is now. The realization happened in less than a second, a mere moment, and he was kissing her back. It was not a fierce, hot, heavy kiss, but more . . . _light_ , explorative, loving. It was passionate, yes, but not in a way that invited anything more than gentle, loving touches.

Neither one of them said those three little words, but that was because they did not have to. Ib's mother had always told her that _"Actions speak louder than words"_ , but she had never known it to be more true than it was right now.

The kiss . . . that was all the confirmation either one of them required.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a happy thing! I'm not 100% sure if the quote this time is correct, though. Not as much fluff as I had hoped, but I like how this turned out. I purposely aged Ib up to 20, and I do ship her romantically with Garry when she is old enough, but nothing really beyond kissing. I still view their relationship as more...innocent.


End file.
